ODE TO EVENING. BY COLLINS. IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales; O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding-star arising shows The fragrant hours, and elves Who slept in buds the day, [vale, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes: So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! A MADRIGAL. BY PETER PINDAR. TO CHLOE, CHLOE, prithee, why so coy? Where's the danger of a kiss? Loaded are thy lips with joy; Budding, if they blush with pleasures, Freely, freely, let me take 'em : If a sin t' enjoy their treasures, NATURE was a fool to make 'em. THE VANITY OF FAME. BY THE REV. H. MOORE. As vapours from the marsh's miry bed Ascend, and, gath'ring on the mountain head, Spread their long train in splendid pomp on high; Now o'er the vales in awful grandeur low'r; Now flashing, thund'ring down the trembling sky, Rive the tough oak, or dash th' aspiring tow'r; Then melting down in rain Drop to their base original again; Thus earth-born Heroes, the proud sons of praise, Awhile on Fortune's airy summit blaze, The world's fair peace confound, And deal dismay and death, and ruin round; Where is each boasted Favourite of Fame, |